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EPISTLE TO GAVIN HAMILTON,

ESQ.,

RECOMMENDING A BOY.

[Gavin Hamilton, here addressed, under date Mosgaville, May 3, 1786, was a writer to the signet or legal practitioner, whose residence at this time was the most conspicuous dwellinghouse in the village of Mauchline. Master Tootie was a dealer in cows, well known in that locality.]

I HOLD it, Sir, my bounden duty

To warn you how that Master Tootie,
Alias, Laird M'Gaun,

Was here to hire yon lad away
'Bout whom ye spak' the tither day,
And wad ha'e done 't aff han';
But lest he learn the callan tricks,
As, faith, I muckle doubt him,
Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks,
And tellin' lies about them:

As lieve then, I'd have then,
You clerkship he should sair,
If sae be, ye may be

Not fitted other where.

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To try to get the twa to gree,
And name the airles and the fee,
In legal mode and form:
I ken he weel a sneck can draw,
When simple bodies let him ;
And if a devil be at a',

In faith he 's sure to get him.
To phrase you, and praise you,

Ye ken your laureate scorns;
The prayer still you share still,
Of grateful Minstrel BURNS.

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND

[The young friend here addressed, under date May, 1786, was Andrew Aiken, son of Robert Aiken, to whom Burns inscribed, as an unwitting passport to fame, his noble "Cotter's Saturday Night." Andrew Aiken proved eminently successful in afterlife, first as a merchant in Liverpool, and later on as a servant of the Crown abroad, in which capacity he died some forty years ago at St. Petersburgh.]

I LANG ha'e thought, my youthfu' friend,
A something to have sent you,
Though it should serve nae other end
Then just a kind memento;
But how the subject theme may gang,
Let time and chance determine;
Perhaps it may turn out a sang,
Perhaps turn out a sermon.

Ye'll try the world soon, my lad,
And, Andrew dear, believe me,
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,

And muckle they may grieve ye :
For care and trouble set your thought,
E'en when your end 's attained :
And a' your views may come to nought,
Where every nerve is strained.

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TO A LOUSE.

ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S BONNET AT
CHURCH.

[Mention is made in the sixth stanza of the

My sooth right bauld ye set your nose
out,

As plump and grey as onie grozet;
Oh, for some rank, mercurial rozet,
Or fell, red smeddum,

Wad dress your droddum!

I wad na been surprised to spy
You on an' auld wife's flainen toy,
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy,
On's wyliecoat;

following, of a then fashionable gauze or muslin I'd gie ye sic a hearty dose o't,
bonnet for ladies, called the Lunardi. The
name was given to it in compliment to the
famous Italian aeronaut Vincent Lunardi, who
in 1785 astonished the people of Scotland, at
Edinburgh, Glasgow, St. Andrews, and other
places, by making some of the most marvellous
ascents in a balloon on record, going up literally
with the velocity of a skyrocket! Revolting
though the theme is which Burns has here
selected, the poem has won its way to as wide
a celebrity as any he ever produced, the last
stanza being rendered familiar to the whole
world by frequent repetition.]

HA! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie!
Your impudence protects you sairly:
I canna say but ye strunt rarely

Owre gauze and lace;
Though, faith, I fear ye dine but sparely
On sic a place.

Ye ugly, creepin', blastit wonner,
Detested, shunned by saunt an' sinner,
How dare ye set your fit upon her,
Sae fine a lady!

Gae somewhere else and seek your
dinner

On some poor body.

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle; There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle

Wi' ither kindred jumpin' cattle,

In shoals and nations;

Whare horn or bane ne'er dare unsettle
Your thick plantations.

Now haud ye there, ye're out o' sight,
Below the fatt'rils, snug an' tight;
Na, faith ye yet! ye'll no be right
Till ye 've got on it,
The vera tapmost, towering height
O' Miss's bonnet.

But Miss's fine Lunardi-fie!
How dare ye do 't!

Oh, Jenny, dinna toss your head,
An' set your beauties a' abread!
Ye little ken what cursed speed
The blastie 's makin'!
Thae wings and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice takin'!

Oh, wad some power the giftie gi'e us
To see oursel's as others see us!

It wad frae monie a blunder free us
And foolish notion :
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,
And e'en devotion !

A BARD'S EPITAPH.

[In this self-condemnatory epitaph, Burns seems, in obedience to a sombre presentiment, to have donned the sackcloth and ashes by anticipation.]

Is there a whim-inspired fool,

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool?
Let him draw near;
And owre this grassy heap sing dool,
And drap a tear.

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[Prefixed to this Dream, as originally published, were these words-"On reading in the public papers the Laureate's Ode, with the other parade on June 4th, 1786, the Author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the birthday levee; and, in his dreaming fancy, made the following Address." The Poet Laureate at this time was Thomas

Warton. Mrs. Dunlop having taken exception to the pasquinade as indiscreet, Burns wrote her, on the 30th April, 1787-"My Dream has unfortunately incurred your loyal displeasure; but I set, as little by princes, lords, clergy and

critics, as all these respective gentry do by my bardship."}

"Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames with reason;

But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason?"

GUID-MORNIN' to your Majesty!

May Heaven augment your blisses, On every new birthday ye see,

A humble poet wishes!
My bardship here, at your levee,
On sic a day as this is,
Is sure an uncouth sight to see
Amang the birthday dresses,

Sae fine this day.

I see ye 're complimented thrang,
By mony a lord and lady,

"God save the King!"'s a cuckoo sang That's unco easy said aye;

The poets, too, a venal gang,

Wi' rhymes weel-turned and ready, Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, But aye unerring steady,

On sic a day.

For me! before a monarch's face,

Ev'n there I winna flatter; For neither pension, post, nor place, Am I your humble debtor: So, nae reflection on your grace,

Your kingship to bespatter; There's mony waur been o' the race, And aiblins ane been better

Than you this day.

'Tis very true, my sov'reign king,

But facts are chiels that winna ding, My skill may weel be doubted: An' downa be disputed:

Your royal nest, beneath your wing,
Is e'en right reft an' clouted,
And now the third part of the string,
An' less, will gang about it

Than did ae day.

Far be 't frae me that I aspire

To blame your legislation,
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire,

To rule this mighty nation!
But, faith! I muckle doubt, my Sire,
Ye've trusted ministration

To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre
Wad better fill their station

Than courts yon day.

And now ye 've gi'en auld Britain peace,
Her broken shins to plaster;
Your sair taxation does her fleece,

Till she has scarce a tester:

For me, thank God! my life's a lease,
Nae bargain wearing faster,

Or, faith! I fear, that wi' the geese
I shortly boost to pasture

I' the craft some day.

I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt,

When taxes he enlarges, (An' Will's a true guid fallow's get

A name not envy spairges,) That he intends to pay your debt,

An' lessen a' your charges; But, God-sake! let nae saving fit Abridge your bonnie barges

An' boats this day.

Adieu, my Liege! may Freedom geck
Beneath your high protection ;
An' may ye rax Corruption's neck,
And gi'e her for dissection!
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect,
In loyal, true affection,

To pay your Queen, with due respect,
My fealty an' subjection

This great birthday..

Hail, Majesty Most Excellent!
While nobles strive to please ye,
Will ye accept a compliment

A simple poet gi'es ye?
Thae bonnie bairntime, Heaven has lent,
Still higher may they heeze ye
In bliss, till Fate some day is sent,
For ever to release ye

Frae care that day.

For you, young potentate o' Wales,
I tell your Highness fairly,
Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling

sails,

I'm tauld ye 're driving rarely; But some day ye may gnaw your nails, An' curse your folly sairly, That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, Or rattled dice wi' Charlie, By night or day.

Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known
To mak' a noble aiver;

So, ye may doucely fill a throne,
For a' their clishmaclaver:
There, him at Agincourt wha shone,

Few better were or braver ;
And yet, wi' funny, queer Sir John,
He was an unco shaver
For mony a day.

For you, right rev'rend Osnaburgh, Nane sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, Although a ribbon at your lug

Wad been a dress completer: As ye disown yon paughty dog That bears the keys of Peter, Then, swith! an' get a wife to hug, Or, trouth! ye'll stain the mitre Some luckless day.

Young royal Tarry Breeks, I learn,

Ye've lately come athwart her; A glorious galley, stem an' stern, Well rigged for Venus' barter;

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